“It is not my mode of thought that has caused my misfortunes, but the mode of thought of others.”

Religions are the cradles of despotism.

The rivers of blood are flowing beneath our feet… Ive been to hell, young man, youve only read about it.

The reasoning man who scorns the prejudices of simpletons necessarily becomes the enemy of simpletons; he must expect as much, and laugh at the inevitable.

Chimerical and empty being, your name alone has caused more blood to flow on the face of the earth than any political war ever will.

Thread of their days without pity, and in the midst of life, without ever concerning themselves with this fatal moment, living as though they were to exist for ever, they disappear into the obscure cloud of immortality, uncertain of the fate which lies in store for them.

Fear not lest precautions and protective contrivances diminish your pleasure: mystery only adds thereto.

I assumed that everything must yield to me, that the entire universe had to flatter my whims, and that I had the right to satisfy them at will.

Happiness is ideal, it is the work of the imagination.

Is it not of the imagination that the sharpest pleasures arise?

Now I beg of you to tell me whether I must love a human being simply because he exists or resembles me and whether for those reasons alone I must suddenly prefer him to myself?

In an age that is utterly corrupt, the best policy is to do as others do.

There you have Nature, there you have her intentions, there you have her scheme: a perpetual action and reaction, a host of vices, a host of virtues, in one word, a perfect equilibrium resulting from the equality of good and evil on earth.

What do I see there but a frail being forever unable to bring man to heel and force him to bend a knee. This creature, although emanated from him, dominates him, knows how to offend him and thereby merit torments eternally! What a weak fellow, this God!

The idea of seeing another person experience the same pleasure reduces one to a kind of equality which spoils the unutterable charms that come from despotism.

What does one want when one is engaged in the sexual act?

Every principle is a judgment, every judgment the outcome of experience, and experience is only acquired by the exercise of the senses . . .

A mode of being that the way of life about me had said could not be, must not be, and upon which the penalty of death had been placed.

Rather, love is a way of being, a “giving to,” not a ‘falling for”; a mode of relating at large, not an act limited to a single person.

Exile as a mode of genius no longer exists; in place of Joyce we have the fragments of work appearing in Index on Censorship.

Specialness as a primary mode of death transcendence takes a number of other maladaptive forms.

Clearly, either in the Soul alone, or in the Soul as employing the body, or in some third entity deriving from both. And for this third entity, again, there are two possible modes: it might be either a blend or a distinct form due to the blending.

I’m suspicious of any mode of transportation that requires a running start.

I could work and get to know him and have him help me with the text, the script and become him. It’s almost like a painter having a model to become.

The legs that I have made are far more perfect than the ones nature would have given me – my mother’s side of the family have awful legs.